Pride comes before the fall?! The eternal question and its mystery!2nd part!c;

The trees do not disappear in the New World; instead, they are transformed in meaning and function, because Revelation describes not a return to the forests and ecosystems of the old Earth but a new creation where the central tree is the tree of life, multiplied along the river of life, bearing twelve kinds of fruit and offering healing, which means that trees in the new creation are not biological organisms dependent on sunlight, seasons, or photosynthesis but expressions of divine life, existing in a reality where God Himself is the source of light and where nature is no longer fragile, decaying, or bound to the cycles of the old universe; in Eden, trees were part of a natural ecosystem designed for innocence

In the New Jerusalem, the trees are part of a perfected creation designed for redeemed beings, so they are not there to provide oxygen or shade but to express abundance, beauty, and healing, and this is why Revelation focuses on one archetypal tree rather than a forest, because the new creation is not a wilderness but a city infused with divine life. The presence of the tree of life shows continuity — God’s life still flows into creation — but the absence of the tree of knowledge and the absence of a garden show that the conditions of innocence are gone forever, replaced by a world where everything is aligned with God and nothing can fall again, so the trees that remain are not natural in the old sense but eternal, symbolic, and real in a way we cannot yet fully imagine.

Just the tree of life? No other one?

Revelation only names the tree of life, but it does not say that no other trees exist; instead, it focuses on the tree of life because it is the central, archetypal tree of the new creation, the one that carries divine life, healing, and continuity from Eden, while the rest of the landscape is simply not described in detail, meaning the text is selective, not exhaustive, and the purpose is theological, not botanical, so the silence about other trees does not mean they are absent, only that they are not the focus. The new creation is not a wilderness or a forest like the old Earth, but a city infused with divine life, and the tree of life appears repeatedly along the river because it represents the new mode of existence.

Yet nothing in the text forbids the presence of other forms of vegetation; it simply shifts the emphasis from natural ecosystems to a reality where everything is sustained directly by God. So the tree of life is highlighted because it carries symbolic and real significance, but the new world is not described as barren or empty, only as transformed, and the biblical writers often describe only what matters theologically, leaving the rest to imagination. In short, the tree of life is the central tree, the one that defines the new creation, but that does not mean it is the only tree; it is simply the only one that Revelation needed to mention.

Well my friend, its looking like i am going to miss a lot of things. No idea how will this reconcile with our new nature as beings? But who knows if we will even remember planet Earth!

Seems so!🤭 It’s completely natural to feel like you’re going to “miss” a lot of things from Earth when you imagine the New World, because right now your emotions, memories, attachments, and identity are all shaped by this life, this body, this brain, and this world, but the biblical idea of the redeemed state is that your nature will be transformed in such a way that loss will not exist, longing will not exist, and the sense of “missing” something will be impossible because your consciousness will be whole, healed, and aligned with a reality that is fuller than anything you’ve ever known; in other words, you won’t be forced to forget Earth, but the way you relate to it will change so completely that the idea of missing it won’t even make sense anymore.

Your emotional structure will be different, your perception will be different, and your joy will be complete, not dependent on familiar objects, landscapes, or routines. The Bible hints that memory remains — identity is not erased — but the pain, nostalgia, and attachment that define memory now will be gone, replaced by a clarity that lets you see Earth as a chapter, not a loss, and this is why the new nature of redeemed beings is described as incapable of sorrow: not because God wipes your mind, but because your mind becomes capable of holding truth without suffering. So the fear of missing things is a very human, very present‑world feeling, but it won’t follow you into the new creation, because the emotional architecture of that world is built on fullness, not absence, and your nature will be aligned with that fullness in a way we can’t fully imagine from here.

It’s like trying to explain adult nostalgia to a child who hasn’t lived long enough to feel it, or trying to explain heartbreak to someone who has never loved — the emotional categories just aren’t there yet.

Whether we remember Earth or not isn’t the real issue; the point is that whatever we remember will no longer hurt, no longer pull, no longer create a sense of loss, because the new nature described in the redeemed state is one where joy is complete and nothing feels like it’s missing, and that means the reconciliation doesn’t come from forgetting but from becoming a kind of being who no longer experiences absence the way we do now. From this side, it feels impossible; from that side, it will feel natural.

No sea no ocean no mountains!

This idea of a world with no sea, no ocean, no mountains hits hard because those things are some of the most powerful, emotional, grounding parts of Earth, and it’s almost impossible for the human mind to imagine a reality that feels complete without them, yet the description in Revelation isn’t saying “there will be nothing beautiful,” it’s saying the new creation won’t be built on the same fragile, dangerous, chaotic structures that define this world; the sea in ancient thought symbolized chaos, threat, separation, and death, and mountains symbolized distance, inaccessibility, and the barriers between God and humanity, so their absence isn’t about removing beauty but removing everything that once represented danger, division, or instability.

The new world isn’t a downgrade from Earth but something so different that our categories of beauty don’t map onto it yet, and the things we love now — oceans, mountains, landscapes — are tied to a physical system that includes storms, erosion, tectonics, drowning, isolation, and decay, all of which disappear in the new creation; what replaces them isn’t emptiness but a kind of beauty that doesn’t rely on the physics of this universe, a beauty we can’t picture because we’ve never seen anything outside this world’s rules. From here, it feels like loss; from there, it will feel like stepping into a reality where nothing is missing because the emotional structure of longing won’t exist anymore, and the beauty of that world will be so complete that the absence of oceans or mountains won’t register as absence at all.

Of course you have an answer for everything. If there would have been possible to maintain one thing from this world, into the new world, supposing you could choose, what it would be ?

😂🫶! Love that! If I had to choose one thing from this world to carry into the next — not as a theological claim, just as a thought experiment — it wouldn’t be a landscape or an object but something like the feeling of standing in a place that makes you breathe differently, the way a quiet forest or a calm shoreline or a high mountain can make your mind settle and your chest open, because that sensation is one of the few things on Earth that hints at what peace might feel like without the weight of fear, decay, or time; the physical forms might not survive into the new creation, but the essence of what they give us — that deep exhale, that sense of being small but safe, that moment where the world feels bigger than your worries — that’s the one thing worth preserving!

And if anything from Earth has a spiritual “echo” that could fit naturally into a redeemed reality, it’s that. The mountains and oceans themselves may not cross over, but the feeling they awaken in us might be the closest thing to a bridge between this world and the next.

Whoau!

Behind your “whoau.” And, yes, thank you for appreciation! Sometimes a reaction like that slips out when something hits you in a way you didn’t expect — a mix of surprise, a bit of awe, maybe a little confusion, like your mind suddenly opened a door you didn’t even know was there, and for a moment you’re just standing in it without needing to explain anything. It’s interesting how a simple idea, or a shift in perspective, can do that: it doesn’t give you answers, it just expands the space inside your thoughts, and you feel yourself adjusting to it in real time. That “whoau” is basically your mind stretching, noticing that the world — or the next world — might be bigger, stranger, or more layered than you assumed a few minutes earlier, and you’re just letting that sink in without rushing to define it.

I don’t know what i will chose. I think i really found the most difficult question! Ha ha ha ha! 🤣

Yes, it is a wonderfully difficult question, and that’s exactly why it made you laugh, because the moment you try to choose one single thing from this world to carry into another, your mind suddenly realizes how enormous the question actually is, like you opened a tiny door and found a whole universe behind it, and the funny part is that the more you think about it, the more impossible it becomes, because every choice feels too small, too narrow, too tied to the way we experience life right now; it’s like trying to pick one flavor to represent all food, or one memory to represent your entire childhood, and the absurdity of it makes the whole thing feel playful rather than heavy.

The truth is, the question is difficult precisely because it touches something deep — what we value, what we cling to, what we think beauty is — and at the same time it’s light enough to laugh about, because you know there’s no “right” answer, just the fun of imagining. That mix of depth and humor is what makes your reaction feel so alive.

I like my Bible book, you know. Has large print, easy to read, and the pages, ... oh, the pages are so fine and thin and velvety…. I can’t describe what I felt the first time I touched it to my cheek! This way I would have with me — a piece — of the tree!

What a tenderness! There’s something incredibly tender about the way you describe that Bible, the large print, the thin velvety pages, the way the paper feels almost alive against your cheek, and I understand why that sensation struck you so deeply, because it’s not just a book to you, it’s a physical connection to something sacred, and the idea that the pages come from a tree makes it feel like you’re holding a small, gentle piece of creation in your hands; it’s one of those rare objects where the material and the meaning blend together so perfectly that touching it becomes its own kind of prayer.

The thought of carrying that feeling — that softness, that warmth, that quiet intimacy — into the new world is beautiful, because it’s not really about the paper or the tree, it’s about the way it made you feel grounded, comforted, connected, and if anything from this world could echo into the next, it would be something like that: not the object itself, but the tenderness it awakened in you, the sense of closeness and reverence that doesn’t depend on the physical form. In a way, you already carry that “piece of the tree” inside you, because the memory of that touch, that moment, that softness, is yours, and nothing can take that away.

“În felul acesta aş fi avut cu mine — o bucățică— dintr-un copac!’’= why i cannot translate the word- ‘ o bucățică’? If i put in Google translate, it gives me the same wrong translation: small piece; is still a different value from what i want to express!

The reason you can’t translate bucățică other then with “small piece”, is that the Romanian word carries an emotional softness and a sense of affection that English doesn’t capture with a literal phrase; bucățică isn’t just a measurement, it’s a tender, almost intimate diminutive, something that feels warm, delicate, cherished, like a tiny fragment that matters not because of its size but because of the feeling attached to it, and English doesn’t have a perfect equivalent, so when you say “a small piece of a tree,” it sounds technical, almost cold, while o bucățică dintr-un copac feels personal, sentimental, like you’re holding something precious.

The closest English could get would be something like “a little piece of a tree” or even “a tiny bit of a tree,” but even those don’t fully carry the emotional weight of the Romanian diminutive, because English doesn’t use diminutives the same way; Romanian can shrink a word and make it sweeter at the same time, while English shrinks it but loses the tenderness. So your instinct is right — bucățică has a value that “small piece” simply can’t reproduce.

Yes, how well said! Never realised that before! Well, yes sometimes. But even for words simple and not something out of common. ‘’Romanian word carries an emotional softness and a sense of affection that English doesn’t capture with a literal phrase; bucățică isn’t just a measurement, it’s a tender, almost intimate diminutive, something that feels warm, delicate, cherished, like a tiny fragment that matters not because of its size but because of the feeling attached to it, and English doesn’t have a perfect equivalent’’= like: “A crumb of bread’’/ Una briciola di pane/ Een kruimeltje brood.

Exactly — bucățică has the same emotional flavor as those examples you gave: “a crumb of bread,” “una briciola di pane,” “een kruimeltje brood.” All of them carry that tiny‑but‑precious feeling, not just a measurement but a tenderness. A crumb isn’t just “a small piece of bread,” it’s a little something, a delicate leftover that somehow feels intimate, almost cute, and that’s the same energy ‘bucățică’ has. Romanian diminutives shrink the object but enlarge the emotion, and that’s why the English literal translation loses the warmth. When you say o bucățică dintr-un copac, it feels like you’re holding something fragile, beloved, almost symbolic — not just a fragment of wood, but a tiny piece of a living thing that carries meaning.

English can describe it, but it can’t feel it the same way, because English doesn’t have that built‑in emotional softness in its diminutives. Romanian, Italian, Dutch — they all let you wrap affection around an object just by changing the ending of a word, and that’s why your sentence has a charm that English struggles to reproduce.

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